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COPYRIGHT DEPOS 


FRIENDS ^ 

| ERE arc some pictures of dood friends 
I Whose hearts are staunch and true; 
Each one m his own ioijal wag, 
Gives faith and love to gou. 
Dumb hi ends theij are, but how their We 
Unfailin^lg endures! 

Among them aU perhaps goull see 
Some faithful friend, of yours. 


























































































He is joyously our close and adoring 
slave , whom nothing discourages, noth¬ 
ing drives away ,— 









^ 11 hS5S 




OUR FRIEND 

^ the <***■ 

DOG 

Maurice Maeterlinck 





Adapted for 
CHILDREN 

JOHN MARTIN 
Illustrated 6y 
SEDD1E ASPELL 

—* 

NEW YORK^5> 

DODD, MEAD a*d COMPANY 


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tt 





S' 



COPYRIGHT 1903 BY 
THE CENTURY CO. 


COPYRIGHT 1904 BY 
DODD. MEAD ft COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT 1924 BY 
DODD. MEAD & COMPANY. INC. 



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PRINTED IN U. S. A. 



SEP 20 *24 ' 

©C1A801937 



A ' n 






I 

A FOREWORD 


to our 

CHILDREN 


C HILDREN, of all the many kinds of 
literary work I have done for you, 
the retelling of the story of Our 
Friend the Dog has given me the most 
happiness. I suppose this is so because, while 
really wanting to give you something that 
would add to your joy and pleasant memories, 
I have been living very close to the life of 
The Dog , our natural companion and loving 
friend. I thought I knew dogs as well as any 
one and understood them more than most 
people; but after studying and working with 
Maurice Maeterlinck’s essay about our dog 
friends, I have decided I knew but little. No 
one among writers and lovers of dumb crea¬ 
tures has looked so deeply and seen so clearly 
into the very being and meaning of this animal 
friend whose life and purpose of living is so 
closely linked with ours. 

Among all of Maeterlinck’s splendid es¬ 
says, none is so glowing with beauty and sim¬ 
plicity as his tribute to Our Friend the Dog . 


I wanted you children to have this essay for 
your very own, and I wished it to hold as much 
as possible of the original beauty and under¬ 
standing. In retelling it for you I have taken 
few liberties that would deprive you of the 
happiness and benefit of Maeterlinck’s own 
story. When I had changed certain words that 
could well be simpler, and shortened some sen¬ 
tences and, last of all, rearranged some inter¬ 
esting but difficult philosophies, I left you the 
delightful heart of the essay. One day, when 
you read the original English translation so 
beautifully done by Alexander de Mattos, you 
will feel that it was but a short step from the 
grown-up essay to this, your own, which I give 
to you with pride and love. 

So, children, let this story of Our Friend 
the Dog go straight to loving places in your 
young hearts, and let it be an influence that 
shall give to your advancing lives more true 
reasons for loving, understanding, and protect¬ 
ing our faithful and unselfish friend The Dog. 

John Maetin 



1 OUR FRIEND 1 

THE DOG 



W ITHIN the last few days I have 
lost a little bulldog. He had 
just completed the sixth month 
of his brief life. He had no history. His 
intelligent eyes opened to look out upon 
the world to love all children and all 
grown-ups. Then his eyes closed for all 
time. The friend who had passed him on 
to me had given him the startling name 
of Pelleas. But why rechristen him—for 
how could a poor little dog, loving, 
devoted, and faithful, disgrace any name 
of man or hero? 






OUR FRIEND 


Pelleas had a great, bulging, powerful 
forehead, like that of Socrates. Under a 
little black nose, blunt as a mallet, there 
hung a pair of large, evenly formed chops, 
which made his head a sort of big, ob- 
stinate, pensive, and three-cornered 
warning. He was beautiful after the 
manner of a beautiful, natural monster 
that had obeyed the laws of its kind. 
And what a smile of attentive obliging¬ 
ness, of innocence, of affectionate sub¬ 
mission, of boundless gratitude! What 
a loving smile lit up that adorable mask 
of ugliness at the least caress! Whence 
did that smile come? From the soft and 
melting eyes? From the ears pricked up 
to catch the words of man? 
From the forehead that un- 
wrinkled to understand and 
love, or from the stump of a 
tail that wriggled at the other 
end of him to prove the 
glowing joy that filled his 
body? Oh, that tail, what an 
indicator of all emotions 1 







THE DOG 


How happy was he once more to feel 
the hand or catch the glance of the god 
to whom he had surrendered himself, 
for indeed his master was godlike. 

Pelleas was born in Paris, and I had 
taken him to the country. His bonny, 
fat paws, shapeless and loose-going, car¬ 
ried him through unexplored pathways 
of his new place of living. His huge, 
serious head, flat-nosed and sad, looked 
as if heavy with thought. For this 
strange head was beginning the great 
work that oppresses every brain at the 
start of life. In less than five or six weeks 
he had to get into his mind satisfactory 
ideas of the universe. 

We children of man, aided by all the 
knowledge of our elders and 
brothers, take thirty or forty 
years to outline some little 
idea of all that life expects of 
us. The humble dog has to 
solve this mystery for himself 
in a few days. Yet, in the 
eyes of God who knows all 





OUR FRIEND 


things, does not his humbly gained wis¬ 
dom have the same weight and the same 
value as our own? 

All ground, then, that may be scratched 
and dug up, must be studied—beautiful, 
brown earth which sometimes shows sur¬ 
prising things. You need give but a 
careless look at the sky—it is not interest¬ 
ing, for it gives nothing to eat; one glance 
does away with it for good and all. Then 
the grass must be discovered—the fine and 
green grass, the springy and cool grass, a 
glorious field for races and sports; a friendly 
and boundless bed, in which lies hidden 
the good and wholesome couch-grass. 

It is a question, also, of making a 
thousand pressing and curious observa¬ 
tions. For instance, it is necessary, with 
no other guide than pain, to learn to 
calculate the height of things from the 
top of which you can jump into space. 
You must soon learn that it is foolish to 
pursue birds who fly away, and that you 
cannot climb trees after the cats who 
defy you there. You must know the 



THE DOG 


difference between the sunny spots where 
it is delicious to sleep and the patches 
of shade in which you shiver. 

With stupid wonder you mark that 
rain does not fall inside the house; that 
water is cold, no place to live in, and 
dangerous; while fire is kind and good 
at a distance, but terrible when you come 
too near it. You observe that the mead¬ 
ows, the farmyards, and sometimes the 
roads, are haunted by giant creatures with 
threatening horns. They are great, good- 
natured creatures, perhaps; at any rate, 
silent creatures who allow you to sniff 
at them a little curiously without taking 
offence, but who keep their real thoughts 
to themselves. 

It is necessary to learn, after painful 
and humiliating experience, that all laws 
of nature may not be obeyed without 
heed in the dwelling of the lord and 
master. Oh, place of wonder, this dwell¬ 
ing of the master! Then, you must 
understand that the kitchen is the most 
favored and agreeable spot in that sacred 



OUR FRIEND 


dwelling, although you are hardly allowed 
to settle in it because of the cook, who 
is a great but jealous power. 

You are to learn that doors are im¬ 
portant but fickle tyrants. They some¬ 
times lead to great joy, but are most often 
tightly closed, mute and stern, haughty 
and heartless. They remain deaf to all 
your entreaties. 

You acknowledge, once and for all, 
that the most necessary good things of 
life and the very certain blessings are 
generally locked up in stew-pans and pots, 
and that these are almost always impos¬ 
sible to get into. You learn how to look 
at them with seeming indifference, and 
you practise taking no notice of them. 

You say to yourself that here 
are things which must be 
sacred, since merely to skim 
them with the tip of a respect¬ 
ful little tongue is enough to 
let loose the terrible anger of all 
the gods in the house. 

Then, what is one to think 






THE DOG 


of the table on which so many things 
happen that cannot be guessed; of the 
scornful chairs on which one is forbidden 
to sleep; of the plates and dishes that 
are empty by the time one can get at 
them; of that mysterious object, the 
lamp, that drives away the dark? 

How many orders, dangers, forbidden 
things, problems and puzzles one has to 
arrange in a sadly overburdened memory! 

. . . And how to settle all these with 
other laws and puzzles more powerful 
within oneself—within one’s instinct? 

For instance—to give only one example 
—when the hour of sleep has come for 
men, you retire to your hole surrounded 
by darkness and the great solitude of 
night. All is sleep in the 
master’s house. You feel your¬ 
self very small and weak in 
the presence of the mystery 
of darkness. You know that 
the gloom is filled with foes 
who hover and lie in wait. 

You suspect the trees, the 





OUR FRI END 


passing wind, and the moon-beams. You 
would like to hide, or make yourself 
nothing by holding your breath. But still 
the watch must be kept; you must, at 
the least sound, come from your retreat 
and face the invisible danger. You must 
bluntly disturb the silence of the earth, at 
the risk of bringing down upon yourself 
alone one or many whispering evils. Who¬ 
ever the enemy may be—even if he be man, 
the very brother of the master whom it is 
your business to defend—you must attack 
blindly, fly at his throat. You must even 
take no notice of a hand and voice like 
those of your master. You will not be 
silent, never attempt to escape, never 
allow yourself to be tempted or bribed. 
A very small creature lost in the great 
night without help, you must continue 
the heroic alarm to your last breath. 

This is all the great ancestral duty, the 
absolute duty stronger than death, and 
not even man’s will and anger are able 
to check it. And when, in man’s safer 
dwelling-places of to-day, the dog is pun- 




THE DOG 


ished for his untimely zeal, he looks at 
us in astonished reproach as though to 
tell us that we are wrong. We have lost 
sight of the greatest part of the treaty 
which he made with us at the time when 
we lived in caves, forests, and fens. But 
the dog remains faithful to his treaty in 
spite of all, and thus he keeps closer to 
the truth of life, which is full of snares 
and hostile forces if love and faith are 
forbidden. 

But how much care and study are 
needed to succeed in fulfilling this duty! 
How tangled it has become since the days 
of silent caverns and great deserted lakes! 
It was all so simple then, so easy and 
so clear. The lonely cave home opened 
upon the side of a hill. All that came 
near, or that moved on the horizon of 
the plains or woods, was without question 
the enemy . . . But to-day, you can no 
longer tell ... You have to acquaint 
yourself with a way of living which you 
do net believe in, all the while seeming 
to understand a thousand confusing cus- 





It becomes necessary, therefore, first 
of all to know exactly where the mas¬ 
ter’s sacred kingdom begins and ends. 




















THE DOG 


toms and things. Thus, it seems plain 
that, after all, the whole world is not the 
property of the master, but a place of 
unknown borders and unknown masters. 

It becomes necessary, therefore, first 
of all to know exactly where the master’s 
sacred kingdom begins and ends. To 
whom may we allow admittance, whom 
are we to stop? 

There is the road by which every one, 
even the shabby poor, has the right to 
pass. Why? You do not know. It is a 
fact which you deeply regret, but which 
you are bound to accept. 

After all, what matters it? You are 
sleeping peacefully in a ray of the sun 
that covers the threshold of the kitchen 
with pearls. The earthenware 
pots are amusing themselves 
by elbowing and nudging one 
another on the edge of the 
shelves trimmed with paper 
lace-work. The copper stew- 
pans play at scattering spots 
of light over the smooth, white 




OUR FRIEND 


walls. The motherly stove hums a soft 
tune and dandles three merrily dancing 
saucepans. The clock, bored in its old case, 
strikes the noble hour of meal time. The 
clever flies tease your ears. 

On the glittering table lie a chicken, a 
hare, three partridges, besides other things 
which are called fruits, and which are 
good for nothing. The cook cleans a big 
silver fish and throws the scraps (instead 
of giving them to you!) into the dust bin! 
Ah, the dust bin! Endless treasury of 
wonderful windfalls—the jewel of the 
house! 

You shall have your share, a delicious 
and secretly taken share; but it does not 
do to seem to know where it is. You 
are strictly forbidden to rum- 
age in the dust-bin. Man in 
this way forbids many pleasant 
things, but life would be dull 
and empty indeed if you had 
to obey all the orders of the 
pantry, the cellar, and the 
dining-room. Luckily, man 





THE DOG 


is absent-minded and does not long 
remember the instructions which he so 
freely gives. He is easily deceived. You 
gain your ends and do as you please if 
you have the patience to await the hour. 

You are subject to man, and he is the 
one god; but you none the less have your 
own calm ideas of right and wrong. You 
feel that forbidden acts become lawful if 
they are carried out without the master’s 
knowledge. So, let us close the watch¬ 
ful eye that has seen . Let us pretend to 
sleep and dream of the moon! 









Hark! A gentle tapping at the window 
that looks out on the garden! 


























H ARK! A gentle tapping at the 
window that looks out on the 
garden! What is it? Nothing! 
Only a bough of hawthorn that has come 
to see what we are doing in the kitchen. 
Trees are very curious and often excitable, 
but they do not count. One has nothing 
to say to them; they are not reliable— 
they obey the wind which has no char¬ 
acter. But what is that? I hear steps! 
Up, ears open! Nose on the alert! It is 
the baker coming to the kitchen, while 
the postman is opening a little gate in 







OUR FRIEND 


the hedge-row. They are friends; they 
bring something, it is well. You can 
greet them and prudently wag your tail 
twice or thrice, with an indulgent smile. 

Another alarm! What is it now? A 
carriage pulls up in front of the steps. 
This is a difficult problem. Before all, it is 
of much importance to heap many insults 
on the horses—great, proud beasts, who 
make no reply. Meantime, out of the 
corner of your eye, you examine the 
persons stepping from the carriage. They 
are well-clad and seem to feel their right 
to be here. They are probably going 
to sit at the table of the gods. The 
proper thing is to bark without bitterness 
and with a shade of respect—-to show 



that you are doing your duty, 
but that you are doing it with 
cautious intelligence. Never¬ 
theless, you hold a lingering 
suspicion and, behind the 
guests’ backs, you stealthily 
and persistently sniff the air 
in a very knowing way. You 




THE DOG 


must be sure that these persons have no 
hidden intentions of evil-doing. 

But halting footsteps resound outside 
the kitchen. It is the poor man dragging 
his crutch. This is an enemy of ancient 
memories, the direct descendant of him 
who roamed outside the cave-dwelling 
which you suddenly see again as if it 
were yesterday. You are wild with in¬ 
dignation, your bark is broken, your 
teeth are multiplied with hatred and rage. 
You are about to seize the enemy by the 
breeches when the cook, armed with her 
broom, comes to protect the traitor. You 
go back to your hole where, with eyes 
filled with helpless and slanting flames, 
you growl out frightful but useless threats. 
You think within yourself that 
this is the end of all things, 
and that the human species 
has lost all notion of justice— 
and injustice. 

Is that all? Not yet; for the 
smallest life is made up of 
countless duties. It is a long 





OUR FRIEND 


work for you to plan and shape a happy 
and safe course upon the borderland 
of two such different worlds as the world 
of beasts and the world of men. 

But, reasonably soon, you know fairly 
well what to do and how to behave on 
the master’s premises. Still, the world 
does not end at the house door. Beyond 
the walls and past the hedge there are 
great spaces over which one has no 
custody. Here you are no longer at home, 
and all things are changed. How are we 
to stand in the street, in the fields, in 
the market-place, in the shops? After 
many difficult and delicate observations, 
we understand that we must take no 
notice of passers-by; we must obey no 
calls but the master’s; and always we 
must be polite, with quiet indifference 
to strangers who pet us. Next, we must 
earnestly fulfil certain mysterious cour¬ 
tesies toward our brothers, the other dogs. 
We must respect chickens and ducks. 
At the bakeshop, we must not appear to 
notice the cakes, which spread them- 




THE DOG 


selves insultingly within reach of the 
tongue. We must not fail to show silent 
contempt to cats on the steps of houses, 
who provoke us by hideous grimaces. 

You must remember that it is lawful 
and even praiseworthy to chase and 
strangle mice, rats, and all animals (we 
learn to know them by secret marks) 
that have not yet made their peace with 
mankind. 

* * * 

All this and much more! Was it 
surprising that my little dog, Pelleas, 
often appeared pensive before the number¬ 
less duties and problems? Was it surpris¬ 
ing that his humble and gentle look was 
frequently very grave when laden with 
cares and full of questions he could not 
answer? 

Alas, he did not have time to finish 
the long and heavy task which nature 
lays upon little dog instincts that strive 
to come nearer the glorious region of the 
master’s manner of living. A mysterious 
ill took my Pelleas and put an end to 



OUR FRIEND 


his destiny and adventurous education. 

And now, all those efforts to gain a 
little more light, all that eagerness in 
loving, and all that courage in one little 
dog, are removed. That affectionate 
gaiety and innocent fawning are mine no 
more. Those kind and devoted looks 
which turned to man for understanding 
and love have passed into memory. All 
those flickering gleams of a distant past 
in a world no longer ours, and all those 
nearly human little habits lie under a 
flowering elder-tree in the corner of my 
garden. 

* * * 

Children, I have given you the short 
life history of Pelleas; that is, he seems 
to have told his own humble 
story from a dog’s personal 
point of view. This being 
finished, is it not fitting that 
I should speak of the dog from 
our human outlook? 

Man loves the dog, but how 
much more ought he to love 





THE DOG 


it when he knows what the dog has 
accomplished to earn justly the reward 
of that love! 

He is the only living creature who has 
succeeded in breaking through nature’s 
rigid partitions which separate the species! 
We human beings are alone, absolutely 
alone, on this planet. Amid all the forms 
of life that surround us, not one, except¬ 
ing the dog, has made an alliance with 
us. Many creatures fear us, most are 
unaware of us, and none unselfishly 
love us. 

In the world of plants we have dumb 
and unmoving slaves, serving in spite of 
themselves. They merely endure our 
laws and demands. When free from us 
and our requirements, they 
hasten to return to their former 
wild liberty. The rose or the 
com, if they had wings, would 
fly at our approach like birds. 

Of all the myriad things 
that live and breathe, not one 
has striven to leap from one 






OUR FRIEND 

















THE DOG 


species to another. One animal alone 
upon the earth has escaped from itself to 
come bounding toward us. 

This animal, our good familiar dog, in 
drawing away from his world and nearer 
to man’s, has performed one of the most 
unusual acts that we can find in the 
history of life. When did the dog first 
seek man? Or did our ancient man 
ancestors seek out the poodle, the collie, 
the mastiff among the wolves and jackals? 
Or did our friend, the dog, come to us 
without reason or cause? We cannot 
tell. As far as man’s records stretch, he 
has been at our side as he is now. He is 
there in our houses, as ancient, as rightly 
placed, as perfectly fitting our habits and 
customs as though he appeared on the 
earth at the same time as ourselves. 

We do not have to gain his confidence 
or his friendship. He is born our friend; 
before his eyes are open he believes in us 
and has given himself to man. 

But the word ‘ ‘friend’ ’ does not entirely 
picture his affectionate worship. He 



OUR FRIEND 






















THE DOG 


loves us and reveres us as though we had 
drawn him out of nothing into the joy 
of all life. He is, above all, ours , full of 
gratitude and more devoted than the 
apple of our eye. He is joyously our close 
and adoring slave, whom nothing dis¬ 
courages, nothing drives away, and whose 
ardent love and trust nothing can dimin¬ 
ish in value. 

The dog, loyally and for all time, 
knows that man is his superior, and has 
surrendered himself body and soul with¬ 
out question and with no intention of 
going back. He keeps for himself only 
his character and those instincts nec¬ 
essary to continue the life nature has 
ordered for him. With unquestioning 
and simple faith, he deserts without 
scruple, for our benefit, the whole animal 
kingdom to which he belongs. For us 
he denies his race, his kin, and even his 
young. 

He loves us not only with his heart and 
intelligence; but down in the deepest 
instincts of his race, he thinks only of us 



OUR FRIEND 


and dreams only of being of use to us. To 
serve us better, to make himself more 
suitable for our different needs, he takes 
on new shapes and abilities which he freely 
gives to us. 

Is he to aid us in the pursuit of game 
on the plains? Then his legs lengthen, 
his muzzle tapers, his lungs widen, and 
he becomes swifter than the deer. Does 
our prey hide in the undergrowth? Then, 
this changing genius, knowing our need, 
gives us the basset—so short-legged that 
he is almost a footless serpent, which 
may wind and slip into the closest 
thickets. Do we ask that he should drive 
our flocks? The same willing genius 
gives him size, intelligence, energy, and 
vigilance. Do we intend him 
to watch and defend our home? 
Then his head becomes round 
and monstrous, in order that 
his jaws may be more power¬ 
ful, more formidable and more 
vicelike. Are we taking him 
to hot countries? Then his 





THE DOG 


hair grows shorter and lighter, so that 
he may faithfully follow us under the 
rays of a burning sun. Are we going to 
the north? His feet grow larger, the better 
to tread the snow; his fur thickens so 
that the cold shall not compel him to 
abandon us. Is he intended only for us 
to play with, to amuse, or to adorn and 
enliven the home? He clothes himself 
with royal grace and elegance; makes 
himself smaller than a doll to sleep on 
our knees by the fireside; or, he even 
consents, should our whims demand it, 
to appear a little ridiculous just to please 


You will not find in nature’s great work 
a single living being that has been so yield¬ 
ing, with so many forms, or 
with the same enormous power 
of shaping itself to meet man’s 
changing desires and needs. 

This is because there is not one 
creature in nature’s many spe¬ 
cies that ever gives a thought 
to the presence of man. 




OUR FRI END 


It will be said, maybe, that we have 
been able to change, almost as greatly, 
other of our domestic animals: our hens, 
our pigeons, our ducks, our cats, our 
horses, or our rabbits. Yes, perhaps; 
but such changes or transformations do 
not compare with those of our dog. In 
any case, we children and grown ones do 
not feel that along with these changes 
has come the same unfailing and complete 
good will, or the same wise and complete¬ 
ly given love. We cannot believe that 
our friend, the dog, comes to bless us 
by his love and devotion through an 
accident of nature’s laws. So we must 
take him as he is given to us, and cling to 
our beliefs because of what we see. And 
it is sweet to feel that the dog’s past 
history and present way of living proves 
that he loves us before all else in life. 





THE DOG 



It was thus that the other day, before 
his illness, I saw my little Pelleas sitting 
at the foot of my writing-table, his tail 
tucked beneath him, his head cocked a 
little to one side, the better to question 
me. He was as attentive and tranquil 
as a saint in his quiet niche. He was 
happy with the happiness which we, 
perhaps, may never know, since it sprang 
from the pure joy he had in my 
smile and approval—the approval of the 
master whose life was beyond compare 
higher than his own. He was there, 
studying, drinking in all my looks; and 
he replied gravely, as equal to equal, to 
my silent understanding of him. He told 
me, no doubt, that he knew that /knew 
he was saying to me all that love should 
say. 



As I saw him thus, so young and full 
of loving trust, he carried my spirit back 
through the depth of ages loving me 
then as now. I almost envied his certainty 
of love for me, and the joy in his own 
loving. I said to myself that the dog 
that meets a good master is a truly happy 
being. And for children and grown-ups, 
the selfless devotion of a dog is a very 
true example of a great love. 

























THIS FIRST EDITION OF 
“OUR FRIEND THE DOG” 
AS RETOLD FOR CHIL¬ 
DREN WAS PLANNED 
AND PRINTED BY THE 
JOHN MARTIN PRESS, 
NEW YORK. 
SEPTEMBER MCMXXIV 
































































-• FRIENDS** 

I ERE are some pictures of oood friends 
Whose hearts are staunch and true; 
Each one, in his own loyal way, 
Gives faith and love to ijou. 
Dumb friends they are, but how their love 
Unfailingly endures! 

Among them all perhaps you’ll see 
Some faithful friend, of yours. 



















^TO DOGS c*. 

T O dogs ofevenj kind andsize, 
To dogs of everij nation. 

To high bred dogs of pedigree. 
To dogs of humbler station, 
To event dog who cocks an car 
Or wags a wag that's true, 

To dogs who give their love and lives 
Without reserve to qou. 









































